


the old moon in the new moon's arms

by lady_peony



Category: Ebon Light (Visual Novel)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-Canon, Romance, Slice of Life, check warnings in notes, the whole cast is pretty much here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_peony/pseuds/lady_peony
Summary: "You've been well, Alenca dear?" Lonre says, solicitous. "I couldn't help but notice you have been looking alittlepeaky—those dark circles under the eyes can be a terrible thing to get rid of, but I know of just the thing for them, very in demand in Lalari—"I draw my shoulders back, and make my smile brighter. "I've been very well, Lonre. A little tired, perhaps, but thank you for inquiring."Ernol besides me had shot a glance at his father that was so icy, it could have stripped flesh from bone. "AlluvionAlenca," Ernol says, pressing weight on the syllables of my title, "has been more than busy enough with her duties than to spend time to worry about her appearances at present."alternatively; Alenca deals with change. Ernol is there with her.
Relationships: Alenca Goffil | Main Character/Ernol Milirose
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	the old moon in the new moon's arms

**Author's Note:**

> possible content warnings for this fic:
> 
> threats of harm/injury from the cuthintal, a quick nonexplicit mention of a threat of suicide, mentions of weapons/assassinations/violent threats typical of gha'alian culture, game spoilers ft. ernol's route. 
> 
> i think that's about it.

It must be hours past nightfall, and yet, here I am. 

Wide awake, despite my tightly shut eyes, the warm covers pulled up over my shoulders.

It almost makes me long for the _Bastion_. Though the hammock would be less comfortable, the slow rocking of waves, the saltwater whispers and creaking wood might have made sleep come easier.

The voice I'm hearing now is not nearly as comforting.

It promises so many things. To stop my breathing in the night. Make me feel such pain as if there were shards of glass digging into every inch of flesh, all at once. To kill, and kill, and kill countless more without my knowing while bearing my face. 

I am not impatient or weak-hearted by nature, but I am tired and weary, and the journey back from that island had felt so long. I lack the strength now to argue back, as was my usual wont, so all I can do now is ignore it, hope it will go quiet soon.

"It would be so _easy_ ," the Cuthintal hisses, "during one of your trysts with your lover to have you slaughter him with your own hand. Bury the dagger he gifted you into his own heart. What would your elven friends have to say then?"

I bite down on my tongue, the stinging pain there easier to bear than the images the Cuthintal whispered, like a curse. 

Ernol, wide-eyed with betrayal, his heart's blood spreading over his chest, my palms folded over the blade—

No. 

_No._

"You do that," I say, forcing the words past dry lips—ah, I have strength enough for this—"you do that, ghost, and I _will_ follow him soon after. You will have no one to act for you then." 

I would do it, I think, if the Cuthintal really did carry out its threat.

I will not let it do as it wishes. I will not let it hurt anyone anymore, hurt anyone else. Especially not him. 

The very thought of it turns my veins to ice. 

I do not know if what the Being was doing on the island was right—I did think about staying, for a long dizzying moment before Ernol had grasped my hand, begged me not to leave him—but the Being must have felt it had good reason to do as it did. I would not kill anyone who had not moved to harm me.

"If you did not wish to dirty your own hands," it speaks up again, insistent and furious, "you could have asked the one beside you to do it. He almost did of his own volition, would have done so on your word alone."

"I will not use Ernol as a weapon for _my_ battles!"

"Regardless, he has attached himself to you as one. Do you not use me as a weapon for your own goals? Why should your elf be any different?"

"When I have used you, Cuthintal, it was only under duress, only for survival! Not for grasping power, but to keep myself alive. Would you fault me for that? I did not ask for your power. You know that as well. I will not let myself be used as a game piece for your plans and I will not do so to those I care for!"

The Cuthintal does not answer. 

Perhaps it had tired itself out with this bout of screaming, as tired as my own mind seemed to be after that rush of words. I shift my head's position on the pillow, and as I do so, water stings its way down my cheeks. Tears? 

The covers at my back shift, and then a hand, light and gentle over the side of my cheek. This voice, when it speaks, is a far more welcome sound than the ghost's.

"Alenca? Still awake?" Ernol's voice, at first softened by sleep, steels itself with intent, like the twirl of a blade. "Is there—is there any danger—?" A pause, a breath of frozen stillness as his fingertips skim slowly over my face. "Have you—are you—crying?"

Ernol has not been sleeping easily either, I think. The sheer rage in his voice then, after the dungeon— _"They took you from me, right from my side, right when you were sleeping at my side—!"_ and my own fears of resting alone meant that we had spent nearly none of our nights apart, both of us laying in the same bed where we could see each other, hear the other's breathing. 

I smile, not wanting to worry him, and shift my back so that we are facing each other, my left hand reaching out to rest on the curve of his jaw. "Unwelcome thoughts. Just—thinking too much."

One of his hands rises, fingertips curling around my left wrist, the touch of it cool and secure. His eyes as he looks at me, are dark and concentrated, brows drawn together with concern. "Is that so? Is it—the Cuthintal—?" and he waves a hand around my head.

"Part of it," I say. "There's been a lot that has...happened."

The hold of his hand around my wrist tightens slightly. "If you are feeling afraid—if you are suffering because of that—you can tell me, Alenca." The frustration he feels at facing an invisible enemy, twined in my own mind, must be maddening, and it bleeds into his own voice. This one is not something he can simply slice away with a blade.

"I know. I know I can. I feel better, regardless, just by you being here."

He sighs, draws my hand, my wrist, closer to his face. I feel his pulse against the curve of my palm, the strands of his hair between my fingers. His head turns, an ear almost pressing to my wrist. 

"Your heart beats so quickly," he whispers, voice low. "Sometimes so quickly that I fear you will fly away, like a bird in autumn."

"A poet now, Ernol?" I murmur, a teasing tone behind the words. "A commander, painter, poet—is there anything you are bad at? I'm afraid that your talents far exceed mine."

"And I'm afraid you are to blame for this, Alenca. I'm not good with words, but you drive me to poetry."

I fall silent. The pulse in my chest must have fluttered, quickened, traveling down my neck, and spine, and my wrist between his fingers.

Ernol smiles now, a satisfied glint in his dark eyes. A reminder I had easily forgotten. He has a sense of humor as well, more hidden than the others. I could tease, but that did not mean he would hesitate to get back at me in return.

"Ready to sleep yet?" he says.

"Nearly. I'll try." Although I close my eyes, I still sense the weight of his glance on me, warm as the heat of a nearby fire.

A rustling sound, as he pulls me in closer, one of his arms slipping over my waist. The faint press of lips over my right eye, then my left eye, before it draws away slightly. A puff of breath, half an inch above my lips, the murmurs of the Gha'alian phrase for 'good night.'

Slowly, gradually, something floats through the air, just above my ear. The sound of singing. 

My grasp of Gha'alian is not yet so great that I can recognize all the words—still, before I drift away, I catch snatches of words I can remember, ' _moon_ ' and ' _dear heart_ ' and ' _stay here_.'

I let the lilting sounds of Ernol's voice, clear and endless as falling rain, lull me away to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The few weeks after everything that happened were far from peaceful for Ernol or for me.

The docks that needed rebuilding, the houses being restructured in its vicinity, damages being knitted together after the explosion and the clashing battles that followed.

The changes in leadership that needed to be determined, the tending to the wounded after the rebellion. Burial of the dead, by flame and water.

Land is valued on Gha'alia, and there is little room as there is for the living, let alone the dead. The highest honored dead, might, perhaps, be allotted a small metal memorial carved with their names and rank, but that tended to be reserved for past kings and their kin, or the most heroic of generals.

Then the strict reorganizing for the soldiers beneath Gawolyes's hand, the assassins previously under Mietwen's employ. 

Ernol's face had taken a dangerously dark look when he was informed that Ecarae had not been found among the assassins in the dungeon. Nor had Axsix's scouts been able to track down a trace of his whereabouts. 

"Must have escaped in the confusion, like the _rat_ he is—" Ernol's voice was incensed, flint and iron mingled in it—"If he ever shows his face here again, I'll break _every bone in both his hands_ and throw him back into the sea for the harm he did to you." 

"Hold now," I say, a hand touching lightly on Ernol's shoulder. "At least let me punch him once, first, before tossing him into the water. I think I am owed that much."

Ernol turns his head to glance at me, his stormy look clearing, and he laughs.

I smile at the sound.

The soldiers at the training grounds around us seemed surprised, judging by the rising clamor from them, helmets turning to look between me and Ernol. Almost awed.

_"Did the commander just—"_

_"The woman besides him, the one with the Cuthintal—the human, Alenca—?"_

_"I didn't even know he could—thought his face was just stuck like so—_  
  
_"Speak a little more respectfully won't you, don't you know she and the commander are—"_

The whispers cut off immediately as Ernol shoots a single look at them. The soldiers stand to attention, the metal of their armor clinking to rest as one. 

Ernol passes on his orders, punctuates the last of them with a gesture of his sword that I don't recognize. The troops murmur their assent and go. 

"News of Gha'alia's changes and the tumult here must have reached other shores by now," he says, as he turns to me, his shoulders relaxing. One of his hands catches mine on his shoulder, and swings it down, our fingers clasped against each other. "We do need to keep up with training on top of all the repairs, in case any of our enemies dare try their luck at this time. Or pirates, even."

"Hmm. I understand," I say, and I tilt back my head to look at the sky. "I'm almost late. I promised Duliae that I would meet him before sunfall."

"Duliae?" Ernol's eyes fix onto mine, lips frowning, but unwilling to say more.

"To introduce me to someone, Ernol. Several someones." I reach up, run my fingers down a loose strand of his hair, darker than my own. "My tutors. Alluvion lessons."

And many lessons there were. Leaving aside Gha'alia's language and history, there were diplomatic customs, neighboring countries' languages, etiquette, dress, flora and fauna, astronomy, arithmetic, medicine and all other manners of knowledge.

I was curious enough for this knowledge, and quick to impress them onto my mind, but the lessons spanned so many things, it was enough to make my head spin. 

My tenacity served me in good stead during these times. I had wanted to learn these things. Needed to know them. I needed my mind to be honed, finely-sharpened as good steel in my hands if I was to carry the role of the Alluvion, and carry it well. 

I wanted to stay here, on this island I had never expected to set foot on, to stand strong besides Ernol. I did not want to let down my friends and allies who had helped me survive here. To let down the one who had been by my side all these months. 

Oh. Haron had mentioned there would be Mask training to take on next week on top of my other lessons as well. 

I murmur a swear under my breath—Commander Calipoa had been so helpful in teaching me those—and reached out for another book assigned by my tutors. The lamp by my side was still burning at a half-brightness. I could review this before bed, and perhaps it would send me to sleep fast enough before the Cuthintal decided it wanted to torment me again.

Strangely, the Cuthintal rarely decided to speak up during any of my lessons. Perhaps it too was as curious as I was, about this world it had found itself in.

I study and train, and train and study for many many hours over many many days, as did Ernol. 

Lonre even remarks on it once, during a dinner. 

"A small family affair," Lonre had said a mere day before the event, and directly handed me an invitation. 

That evening, Ernol had walked me there, his arm and hand twined with mine. Haron was at the table, as expected. General Faelain, their uncle, who greeted me with a grave nod. Arvon, their sister. Their mother too, was there, seated at Lonre's right side. 

Ernol had introduced us already, some time ago before this night. Sochak's eyes indeed were like her sons, dark as night with the same long lashes Ernol had. The fabrics she wore were as bright as the clothes Lonre donned, but cut in a more practical style, allowing more movement. She had looked me over then, sharp but not unkind, and when she spoke—well, communicated really—her voice had odd timbres to it, like wind scraping over stones.

Ernol had stood at her side then, head tilted towards her, before looking up at me to translate her questions. She asked after my lessons, my ideas as an Alluvion among the elves, and finally—

"Ah." Ernol lifted his eyes to meet mine. "She wishes to ask what you think about—about me."

I held his glance for a breath, one, two, three heartbeats, before looking back at his mother's gaze, curious and waiting.

"I think about him more than I think about anyone. I care for him as I have never cared for anyone. If what you ask is if I love him, my lady, then all I can say is that I do."

Ernol, standing a short distance behind his mother had looked smiling, but stunned, recognition at my words sliding over his face. We murmured farewells to his mother soon after, and had left. We were delayed returning to my rooms before dark, as we must have stopped at least three, four, five times to duck behind corners and trees, our lips rushing to meet the other's, every instance sparking with heated wonder and pleased surprise.

This dinner is very different from the party I had attended before, in those early days here. The room's colors burn as they did before, pink and scarlet and an almost blinding amount of gilt and gold, and the meal's fare is as splendid. But the number of us sitting here now is smaller, and I let myself relax a little. My hands handle the utensils with more ease than I would have before; those etiquette lessons I had been taking had not been in vain.

"You've been well, Alenca dear?" Lonre says, solicitous. "I couldn't help but notice you have been looking a _little_ peaky—those dark circles under the eyes can be a terrible thing to get rid of, but I know of just the thing for them, very in demand in Lalari—"

I draw my shoulders back, and make my smile brighter. "I've been very well, Lonre. A little tired, perhaps, but thank you for inquiring."

Ernol besides me had shot a glance at his father that was so icy, it could have stripped flesh from bone. " _Alluvion_ Alenca," Ernol says, pressing weight on the syllables of my title, "has been more than busy enough with her duties than to spend time to worry about her appearances at present."

Lonre had blinked once, and then waves a hand, letting his voice wander onto other topics. Sochak tips her head at her dish, a motion that seems like a question, and he stops mid-sentence to tilt his head towards her.

Arvon had kept on eating, spoonful after spoonful of a clear and flavorful soup, looking faintly bored. Haron, sitting across from me and smirking behind his goblet asks me "to please pass the bread, _madralee_ " before Ernol sighs and glares at him too for good measure.

Now, days after the dinner and back at my studies, I rub my eyes and sigh, with no one to listen to it.

My fingers are ink-stained, the marks numerous enough to match my calluses from weapons training, and I'm sure I must have streaked some into my hair. At least it wouldn't show up too noticeably against brown-black locks. The sums on the paper before me are almost swirling, like the view before me when I first became nauseous during my second trip on the _Bastion_.

I had done sums before, simple things. Keeping track of the plants and food stores we had in Aunt Vanya's hut, finding out what we could spare for trade for a little cloth with the neighbors or with Rylen, but all of this was a different horse. I had never been more grateful that Aunt Vanya, as strict and ornery as she had sometimes been, had spent many autumns and winters teaching me my sums and letters, sometimes guiding me through pages on the rare single book she had kept in our hut, one that listed the names and uses of simple plants on Kalec.

She had taught me many things. Even taught a little etiquette, when I was younger and more foolish, daydreaming of being a princess of the court in one of the tales she had told me and practicing my curtseys in front of a simmering pot.

_"If you're going to make a fool of yourself like that, girl," she had croaked out, one hand holding a wooden spoon, the other a jug of oil for the table, "at least you're going to learn what you're being foolish over. Here—" she put down her spoon and dragged out the small slate I practiced letters on—"you'll need to copy out these titles of the court, and the ways to address them. Neatly, mind you, or you'll need to do it again ten times. You may need this, if you ever have a mind to travel one of these days."_

I never asked Aunt Vanya when she had learned of those things. Perhaps I should have, had I more time.

I shake my head and stare down at the numbers again. They still dance across the page. 

No one else is here, so I let myself slouch, thudding my chin against the book. "What am I doing? Did everything in here flip itself around when I was not looking to vex me?"

A quiet snort echoes through the air, and I flick my glance to the door. Ernol is there, leaning against the lintel. 

"Trouble with some disobedient figures, Alluvion?" He crosses the room to drift by my table, runs his fingers absently through my hair.

"Yes. Can you charge them with mutiny for me? Make them—oh I don't know—clean out latrines or swab the ship's decks or something to make them more agreeable."

A pained face now from him, as he looks down at me. "We don't punish soldiers by making them swab the deck. That's not how our ships run. Haven't your tutors told you so yet?" 

I tip my head into his side, and he rests a hand in the space just over my shoulder and neck, as he peers down at the papers in front of me.

"My tutors have decided that instead of tormenting me with questions on the Cuthintal to torment me with mathematics. Economics. Both of those things, really."

"Hmm, I see." There's the scrape of wood over stone, as Ernol gracefully settles into a chair next to me. He lifts his hand from my shoulder to reach over for a free quill and ink. "Let me help you."

"Shouldn't—shouldn't I be working through these on my own?" 

Ernol is still wearing the light armor that he usually does as a commander, and his cloak carries the smell of the rock and brine and iron from the training grounds. He could have gone to clean up first, or be resting, instead of coming to see me. 

Ernol, already scratching a few figures into the paper, turns to look at me. "Even soldiers in Gha'alia need several years of training as a cadet before rising up to a commander. Your position as of now is unprecedented, without a predecessor to advise you—Axsix perhaps, but he has other duties as well—and even on top of how hard you are working on your Mask training and lessons on top of everything else—I don't see why I can't help you, just once in a while." He pauses, his tone more uncertain, "Unless you don't want me to?"

"No. I do. Very much so." I smile at him. "Thank you."  
  
He looks at me for a beat more, before he glances down back at his paper, making a rueful sound at the splotch of ink that had spread and blotted out one of the numbers. He clears his throat.

"Well. That's good. It's good. Skylar would know more about the trade routes and numbers here. She can help you review when I'm not around."   
  
In between his explanations, I try to persuade him to teach me a few Gha'alian jokes. Ernol, after thinking it over, pulls a face, and says flatly that he doesn't know any I would like. I make a note to ask Skylar about them instead, later.

* * *

I wince and press fingers against my temple as the noise in my head starts up again. 

"Cuthintal, could you, just for one _bewan'na_ second, _be quiet_!" Half of the papers on my table had been looked at, but I still had five more to go through before sunrise.

"You're never quiet when you think. What a waste of a mind. I could think of far better uses for it." 

"Cuthintal—" and I draw myself back. Take in a breath.  
  
That unmarked island Ernol and I had sailed to, all that violet and strange glowing caves, that Being—all of it had made me uneasy, frightened me to some extent. The knowledge from it though. Was there something I could use?

The Cuthintal had itself been a being, a person once from a long-forgotten people. Now it was a frightening one, a ghost in my head that could insult me, shake me with nightmares, grant me powers, threaten me from my own mind.

But still. A person.

When I had first came to Gha'alia, it had taken every speck of self-control I possessed when most elves around me all addressed me as nothing but "the human." 

_"Human, come here."_

_"Human, you have no choice."_

_"That one, yes the Cuthintal-human—"_

Alenca, I had repeated, over and over. Alenca. My name is Alenca.

Could the Cuthintal be feeling something of the same? If it had been a person before, it should have its own fears. It should have things they wanted.

"Cuthintal, is there something you want?"

"Go back to the island. _Kill him_! That is the only paltry way you can repay me, _oathbreaker_!"

"That's not happening, I'm afraid. And—" carefully, carefully now, it would know if I was lying but this information was true, verified by Calipoa and the others who had gone back on a second trip—"the Being, whoever it was we had spoken to is gone now. They went back and he was not there."

"Not—there?" Suspicion lurks in that whisper, and something else beneath that too, something cautious and lighter.

"No. Not a trace of him. You insult my friends aplenty, but their eyes and senses are sharper than mine."

"And if you are lying?" Still suspicious now, but with a more thoughtful slant instead of sharp malice.

"If I am lying, then you would be able to find out, wouldn't you?" I tap a finger against my head. "You know what I know, and sometimes a bit more. If I could have lied earlier and made you less angry, I would have done so."

"True. I accept you wouldn't have the cunning to manipulate me, human."

I ignore the direct insult, and forge on. "And another thing. I have been calling you Cuthintal, for a long while now. But in the caves, the Being said you had been a group of people, before. You know my name. Do you have a name of your own?"

"Hoping to befriend me, turn me to your side as you did your elves? Only a child would think it be so simple, with such a childish question!"

"Am I the one being _childish_ here? You did not get everything you wanted. Neither did I get all the answers I hoped for. Yet, the only one I hear swearing and losing its temper here is you."

"What do you mean?" The question was sullen, but it was speaking instead of ignoring me.

"We are stuck with each other like it or not. I want—both of us to be able to live as well as we are able. I cannot get you free from me for now. So. The only thing we can do is talk. I'll ask again: do you have a name of your own?"

"You cannot pronounce it, clumsy as your speech is."

"I would still like to know, if you wish to share it."

Another moment of silence.

Then, it makes a noise like the slap of salt water breaking on a cliff, jagged and hissing like the edges of rocks falling against each other. 

"All right. I'll remember it. You also had mentioned that my thoughts were noisy to you. I know—" an ironic laugh here of my own—"a little of how that is. Is there a way in my mind to block out some of that noise?"

"You wish to _trap_ me! _Lock me_ in your own mind! You will regret—"

"I did not say that. I know very well what it means to be _trapped and locked up and afraid_ , and I would not wish that even on my enemies." Patience would be needed here. Patience. 

"You wanted— _peace_." The Cuthintal spat out the word like it was something strange and pitiable. "But you did not do as I asked."

"You know my thoughts, wouldn't you know my reasoning as well? Even if I did go back to the island, that Being would no longer be there. What I'm asking for is just me looking at the future as it is now. Is there a way I can soften, or block out just some of the noise of my thoughts from you? Not to lock you up, not to deny you knowledge of what is going on, but just to make it easier for you, for us both—you will be less irritated from it."

I decide not to mention that the thought of the Cuthintal spying on me and Ernol when we were together made my skin crawl. It probably knew, but it wouldn't be polite for me to bring it up.

I wait. The Cuthintal was older than I was, most certainly, but I seemed to have better control over my emotions despite of that. If it needed time to mull over the offer, I could give it time.

"Very well. If you cross me on those terms, I will make you extremely sorry." The voice seems to sniff in her mind, takes on a vaguely disapproving quality to it. "And your dull mating habits interest me not, human."

"Alenca." Well. It was a start, at least.

It takes time, some trial and error, and cobbled-together knowledge from three ancient texts in Duliae's library, but I learn, eventually to put up a wall in my mind. 

Not a prison for the Cuthintal, dense and immovable stone and metal, but more of a wall. A wooden wall, heavy enough to muffle out most sounds. Light enough that it could be knocked on, if there was something important to speak with me about.

The Cuthintal's voice still snaps at me sometimes, insults me for being a fool for making allies from enemies, and threatens me idly with taking over my mind, but the whispers become more of a background noise in my day-to-day living, like Aunt Vanya's grumbling about her shoulders or the village head yelling at children for fencing with sticks.

* * *

The wind tangles itself through my hair, and I shiver. Ernol, looking at me, swiftly pulls off his cloak.

"No, don't," I say, and shake my head. "I'm fine."

He frowns, and refastens his cloak over himself.

Then, he draws me in closer, before draping one part of it over my shoulders. "We'll share it."

Beneath the cloak, his right hand reaches out instinctively for my left one. 

It's not the most comfortable position; I can feel some hard edges of his armor pressing into my arm, and his height makes it a little difficult for the both of us to walk forward at the same pace. We manage, somehow. 

I lean against him, and we both look towards the dark cliff, the clouds passing by the tall beams against the sky, the builders scurrying around it, the sound of hammers and shouted measurements echoing across that space. 

My house. Or what would eventually be my house, once it was built. 

"It's so far out, it is almost as if they wish for you to drop into the sea." Ernol narrows his eyes, and I imagine I can see his mind checking for weak points in the structure, its easily defensible areas, dangerous spots in need of reinforced protection in case of rough weather.

"Ernol the pessimist," I say, and laugh. "If I did drop into the sea, I believe you would have jumped in and fished me out before the water could even touch my hair."

I tilt my head upwards to see Ernol staring at me, eyes bright. A huff of warm air, as he tips his head down, lips almost brushing my hair, just hovering over my ear. 

"Of course," he says. "Do you doubt I would?"

In spite of the cold breeze from moments before, heat rises up my cheeks before I can stop it. "Any—anyways," I say, turning my glance towards the house again, "it would be nice to have somewhere to go that wouldn't just be the rooms in Duliae's place. Remember last week?"

Next to me, I feel the rise and fall of Ernol's chest as he lets out an exasperated groan. "Yes, I do."

Space on Gha'alia was a treasured resource. The island was only so large after all, and the elves were so long-lived. As mercenaries and warriors, some of the elves would strike out for warmer shores, but for those who stayed, saving enough trin for their own dwelling was a constant issue.

There were the barracks, which a large part of the Forces stayed in. Areas for the tradespeople, like Kadia, who usually had an addition of a small room or two near their shops. The King and Grand Generals had their own places, as did the wealthiest of the island like Duliae or Lonre.

For average elves though, who wanted to settle into a space for their own families, the situation was more difficult to settle. Some families dealt with this by building taller units onto pre-existing houses. Haron had told me once there were talks of allotting spaces in the harbor for boarding ships or houseboats, for elves who wished to live in such dwellings. Land was scarce, but there was water all around them, after all.

The incident at Duliae's now—it had been what, a week, two weeks ago?

That day had been one of my rare days off—no lessons, no training. I had been searching through some of the books in one of the libraries, looking for a copy of Gha'alian fables and ballads that I had remembered reading a month before. 

It was a happy surprise to me when Ernol had showed. Things had settled down some with the Forces, leaving him with a little more leisure time than usual to see me.

For some reason or the other, I had ended up with my back pressed to the wall, one of Ernol's hands cupping my chin, the other gently pressing my wrist to the wood near my head. Our lips too, were pressed together, heated and eager and sweet.

He had lifted his mouth from mine, eyes almost feverish, and had drawn back to breathe for just a moment, one of his fingers reaching up to slide down a lock of my hair. And I, wanting to be close to him again, had taken a step forward, with my hands reaching for him—

A harsh ripping sound slashed through the air.

Ernol had looked up, eyes wide, and leapt backwards, somehow pulling me with him in one swift motion.   
  
A big swathe of fabric, previously hanging regally on the wall, crashed down to where I had been standing, an obvious tear running down its center. 

Duliae and Skylar had come running to the room not long after. Skylar had been holding on to the book I had been searching for, and had made gestures towards it when I look over at her.

"I'm not pleased, Ernol," Duliae says, near the front of the library. He looks like he is trying to repress a smirk but is not entirely successful. Or not trying very hard at all, knowing him. 

Ernol, from the side that I can see of him, looks blank, but his face—is that?—his face is slowly growing red, the flush creeping up noticeably over his cheekbones up to his ears.

"I invited you," Duliae continues, "graciously into my home as a friend, and what do you do?"

Ernol's jaw clenches. He hasn't let go of my hand though. 

"You break one of my tapestries—a _300-years-old_ tapestry, might I add—imported from however many hundreds of miles it is from Lalari at _a great cost—_ "

Behind Duliae, Skylar can no longer bear to hold it in and releases audible snickers. She coughs once, and catches my eye, looking apologetic but only for a minute before she starts up again.

I am afraid I might laugh too. 

"The fault was mine, Duliae," I hurry to jump in. "I...I should be the one to apologize, not Ernol." 

Ernol holds tighter to my hand. "You don't have to apologize for _anything_ , Alenca."

"No, no—I should—" Repay it? An imported tapestry, over three centuries old? Even with the salary I was provided now, that would be—

Duliae raises his hand, and laughs. "Very well, for the first time in my own home, I feel like an crochety elder lecturing the young ones about making too much noise. Apology accepted, Alluvion Alenca. If you wish to break any more priceless treasures, to the best of my knowledge, it is rumored that Lonre has an untowards number of treasure rooms."

Ernol's flush turns pale and he makes a face like he had bitten into something sour. I believe I feel my expression shift to match his. If we had been caught like this at Lonre's mansion—!

Lonre would be amused, certainly. But either way, I knew neither Haron nor his sister would stop holding it over his head.

Standing at the cliffs now, Ernol turns his gaze from the sea to look back at me. "Instead of staying in Duliae's place—" he wrinkles his nose, "perhaps we should just go to the forest instead. Live in one of those cabins."

"You hated those cabins," I remind him. "Would it not be lonely, the both of us away from everyone else?"

"I mean, I did." He nods. "But I don't think I would mind, not if it was with you. We would be alone. Together."

"Hmm." I ignore the thump-thump that my heart makes at his words, and flick a finger against his cheek, playful. "What would we do there, in the forest?" 

"Well, I would hunt I suppose. You could—ah—pick berries. Sell jam."

"Berries, Ernol?" I arch a brow at him. "Doesn't seem very fair, if I have to pick a hundred berries a day while you only need to catch a couple fish or wild birds for our supper."

"Fine, fine, we could both hunt and pick berries, if we had to. Watch each other's backs in the forest." He grumbles a little and trails off to silence before he rests his head on top of mine. We watch the construction a little while longer, listen to the sea birds calling over the waves, before we turn around to head back into town.

* * *

The preparations for this party are almost the same as the ones I did for the first gathering I attended here, at Lonre Milirose's house.

Almost, save for a few noticeable changes.

Ernol and I had both gone to pick out the gown this time—not one bright as morning, but one threaded with deep shimmers of blue and black, beautiful as the evening stars.

Skylar had helped me with my igon. She had already dressed, and had finished her own igon herself.

"I didn't like you, at first," she reminds me, one brush sweeping over my right eyelid.

"Thank...you...? Is there a reason to tell me this now?" I refused to move, though it was a little hard to speak at the same time. If I made her smudge it too much, I would have to sit and wait for her to redraw it again.

"I didn't trust you. Well, we didn't really trust you. All I had known was that you were powerful, maybe. Dangerous, certainly." 

"As many others were quick to remind me."

"Yes." She goes quiet for a heartbeat. "I...care a lot about Duliae. About Ernol. They're my oldest friends, and that's not something in easy supply here. It's hard, to choose to trust people here."

I wanted to nod, but couldn't, so I tap my fingers over the vanity in acknowledgment.

"Ernol isn't really the kind of person to—" she narrows her gaze as she switches to working on my other eye, switches her words as well, "Ernol doesn't have many friends either. Doesn't trust easily, or speak to many. But he trusts you."

"Yes. And I, him."

She nods. "And I know you a bit better now. So what I want to say is, watch out for him. He cares very, very deeply for you, and I believe from what I've seen that the same goes for you."

"It is. And I will."

"All right. You're done." She puts down her brush, and we turn to look at the mirror. 

The igon she has drawn is dark, but not overwhelmingly so. The blue she has chosen fits the deep blue of my gown, and brightens the shade of my eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes gray in color—" _selkie eyes_ " Aunt Vanya had said once, in one of her fanciful moods after she had just told me a story, the colors of it just like my father's.

When we step out the door, a hand immediately reaches for my arm, the touch of it familiar.

"Ernol," I say, and dip into a curtsey, with my hand in his, just to try it out. "Any words, before we go?"

I look up to see the full force of his eyes. I inhale, sharply.

Dangerous. So very, very dangerous.

He's dressed in deep blue and black, the cloth cut to fit perfectly around his neck, over his shoulders and his wrists. Dark gloves on his hands, to protect them from the cold. A thought flits idly across my mind that our colors matched. He dons no sweeping cloak this time, no large jacket to hide the suit—the uniform?—he's wearing at this time.

He keeps looking at me, not speaking at all, before he lets out a breath, slowly, as if some unseen force was dragging him to the last thread of his patience. 

To my surprise, he sweeps himself into a low bow to match my curtsey, his form graceful and perfectly controlled, lowering his arms, shoulders, waist.

"We should go." After he rises, his eyes are still locked onto mine.

"Right," I say.

"Shouldn't be late to our own party." Ernol takes a single step forward, close and not close enough.

"Yes. The party to announce our engagement." I lower my lashes a little, before tipping my head up to meet Ernol's eyes again.

"Exactly. Punctuality is important."

Neither of us have made a move from our spot, our hands still holding on to each other, his thumb and fingers folded over my palm and fingers.

I hear a snort of laughter, as my glance shifts over to see Skylar, standing behind Ernol, miming an unflattering hand gesture at us. "You two are terrible. I can't believe I had to see that."

Haron appears out of nowhere by Ernol's right side, and slaps a friendly shove on Ernol's shoulder. "All right, both of you. We should all go, unless you want the new rumor mills to start up on how the two of you eloped on the eve of your own engagement announcement. Mother would be disappointed."

Ernol takes the last step forward, and drops a lingering kiss to my mouth—his eyes shift sideways and crinkle with satisfaction. When our faces part, I look over to see Haron with a hand folded over his own eyes, sighing with mock-dismay.

"All right," Ernol says, and steps around me, falling into place at my left. "Knowing father, he would likely start up those rumors himself if we tarry here any longer. Shall we?"

And off we go, all of our friends, and Ernol and I, the moonlight lighting our path all along the way. 

**Author's Note:**

> +title taken from [this concept](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earthlight_\(astronomy\))
> 
> +alenca's appearance is based on the default appearance in the main menu  
> +in this route, alenca does not kill the Being on the island  
> +it has been so long since i've written anything in first person  
> +i was almost tempted to spend half a paragraph rhapsodizing about elvish rent prices/housing problems on an island, that's what happens when you hit a certain age i guess??  
> +how did this even happen? i played through all the routes once, then went back to refocus on ernol's WENT ABSOLUTELY FERAL and replayed his route over three times IDK MY FRIENDS I JUST RLLY LIKE KNIGHTS AND AM WEAK FOR LOYALTY KINK aksjdfkasd
> 
> +if you want to find me to talk about other otome games or shared fandoms (ages 20+ pls)  
> you can also find me here:  
> [tumblr](https://qserasera.tumblr.com/) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/mallory_madder)


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